holdmypoodle | hey, mr curiosity, is it true what they've been saying about you?

hey, mr curiosity, is it true what they've been saying about you?

The patient was being transferred today.

It was some strange kind of psychological exercise or another that Cosima was the one who'd gotten her hands on Cassandra Cain's intake, really, though it was a new special hell that she'd found herself placed in here. Maybe they thought they were doing well with their secrets and subterfuge, keeping her in the dark, but it was no real mystery for Cosima as to what she was doing here. Cassandra is young, smart, attractive, with a highly capable physical prowess. She'd made a reputation for herself with Batgirl. She'd made a name for herself when Dyad had gotten its grubby mitts all over her.

Clones, cloning. They had to want to clone her. They had to want to do something with her, but the first determination was just what side of the nature versus nurture puzzle she leaned towards.

It's out of her hands, for the first few days. 'Project Stellaluna isn't functioning how we'd hoped,' is the most of the information she gets on the surface level; 'Ms. Cain is being uncooperative,' Delphine hears behind closed doors and in places they think are out of reach, and that's much more satisfying to hear relayed, and Rachel's stolen itinerary can only confirm the fact. When Cosima has her shouting match in Rachel's office - really not much of a match, Rachel doesn't really do things that might disrupt her super interesting robot lifestyle, like shouting, or emoting - it's Monday morning. When she receives the work order to run Cassandra Cain's intake herself, it's not even noon.

The woman sitting before her is a haunting one, nothing so much that Cosima can begin to blame her for. Cassandra's been taken captive, confined to a cell, poked and prodded - she guesses; the medical testing would come first. She doesn't want to imagine how they got her here, less so how they would have coerced her into any manner of consent. They didn't do much around here without some kind of liability form, the very bare bones of legality. Hunched over like Cass is in her spot too, she figures there's some manner of injury going on underneath there. Unless she's faking it.

Cosima sits a relatively safe distance across the table from Cass, tapping fingers in loose debate against the keys of a Dyad laptop. The guard has forcibly directed her into her seat, and the pair of cuffs she's wearing are really - honestly - impressive, thick and steel and unlocked only with an approved thumbprint scan. From what she understands about Cassandra, that's not necessarily enough to stop her. Neither are the chains lashing her to the table. With a crooked and concerned tilt to her mouth, Cosima's head tilts at Cass as the guard leaves and locks the door behind him, joining his equally heavily-armed buddy outside.

"That's Stuart," she offers after a few beats of silence, for the sake of everyone involved trying to be as helpful and compassionate as she can manage. She doesn't expect this woman's seen a lot of that. "We don't talk to Stuart anyway, generally. His mail order bride skipped out on him after five years and he's très perpetually grumpy about this."

Her hands pat lightly against a slew of notes spread out before her, as she thinks in careful intervals about where she's going to proceed from here. With the embarrassingly conspicuous two-way mirror hanging up on the wall, considering who she's talking to, she can bet on this being recorded and fully monitored. She can't risk much, but she's going to risk what she can. She looks at Cass and she can't help but see a girl who looks just like her, parked into the same chair, scared out of her mind as they draw her blood and claim what is hers as their own, duplicate it, triplicate it.

If it's up to her, Paris Hilton's going to see that Oscar before Cass sees any more of the ugly underside of the Dyad Group than she has to. And that she can bet her goddamn life on (or at least what's left of it).

A candy bar slides across the table suddenly, neatly bumping up against Cass' knuckles on the table. "Brought you something. I didn't know if they were actively, like, feeding you."

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Her head is fuzz, cotton candy, cotton balls, marshmallow fluff. Her arm is bruised from the lack of care in blood taking, her entire body feels heavy because they weren't just taking, they were giving. They hadn't anticipated her low tolerance and she's pretty sure she died again because of it, but she thinks she's alive now.

Things are muted, but this girl in front of her has interesting hair. Her glasses are nice and the candy bar might as well be a death threat. Cass' hands curl away from it, balled up and fingers clinging together. If she squeezes any tighter they'll break, but she can't slip her hands free of the cuffs. She's tested them, tested herself, and whatever they're injecting her with has sapped all her strength. She barely has the energy now to keep her head up.

She'd made them nervous, she knows. Before they upped the injection her version of uncooperative was to throw a man through a window and slam a woman's face into a table. They'd been careful since then, and now she can hardly move. Her nose itches.

The girl speaks and Cass isn't looking, it's just noise. This is a test, just another test. More torture to be strong. More heaped on her to become a better warrior. Cain must be behind it, he must be the one who gave her to these people. He'd raised her, kept her, made her kill and leashed her to him and she isn't sure where she is but she knows he's behind it.

He'd given her a name after the first kill. Cassandra, he'd called her, and put her on the roof with him and pointed at the stars and told her the story. Cassandra of Troy, saw the future and died a witch. The second kill, the third kill, they came with nothing. When she was ten, he gave her the last part of her name.

Cassandra Cain. She has his name and she thinks that when he looks at her he loves her, but then it gets covered up by greed and violence and he sends her to do things that make her wish she was dead and she does them because she has nothing else.

Now she's chained to a chair. She should have run the first time.

The girl is speaking and Cass looks, pale face and sunken eyes of someone who has not been resting well. She hears her, and sees pity and hates it but accepts it because that may be her only hope.

"Supposed-" her voice cracks and she realizes she hasn't had water in two days. They stopped feeding her after she threw a second man through a window. She swallows, clears her throat, tries again. "Supposed to... give gifts to friends." And then her fingers flick out, sending the candy bar back to Cosima.

Cosima's hand clasps around the rejected 'gift', toying with the plastic wrapper. She's never made too secretive her feelings about Dyad before. "Yeah, well, even prisons are supposed to give their inmates three squares a day," a sharp-tongued little dig at what she knows they're not feeding her. "I guess we break a lot of rules here."

For a moment, the way she adjusts in her seat, re-crosses her ankles and folds her hands over her papers again, everything in her stature promises something more about that. Whatever tenacity she's honing, she doesn't explain or say anything about - the pose doesn't even last very long, as Cosima is a ball of expressive hands and kinetic energy. She clasps her palms, entwines her fingers together.

"I'm not going to ask you to be my friend," she admits fully then, thumbs rubbing fretfully up against each other. "I think we've come a little too far for that." But they are acquaintances, soldiers of a similar war if from riotously different backgrounds. She doesn't know how she's going to gain Cass' trust, but there's very little that can stop her from trying. "But they have asked me to conduct your first patient interview today."

The candy bar sits in sight but not forgotten, set gently to the side for some potential later.

"Cassandra," she folds her arms and leans forward onto the table. "My name's Cosima - or Dr. Niehaus is fine, if you wanna try to make me feel really cool and titular." She certainly doesn't know if she'd want the familiarity of a first name in Cass' position. "'Asshole' and 'dreadlock bitch' are also acceptable alternatives in this case. I don't mind which one you end up going for, but, uh - I know where my preferences are."

It's almost hopeful, but she won't get ahead of herself.

And she doesn't like the sound of that voice either, parched and creaking; it's her off the cannula for too long, really, and she can practically feel it in her throat. "I know it's not much but - maybe if we can get a few easy peasy questions out of the way, we can see about getting you something to drink?" That gets a brief look thrown towards the mirror. "Do you know where we are, have they told you what day it is?"

Things have faded since her time here into muted, dark shapes. The men through the windows, the woman with her nose bleeding and her mascara running from tearing eyes, they were smudges she could see through the fuzz in her head. The ones who stuck her with needles were no better, just ghosting through her vision and making her unsure she was even seeing anything to begin with.

The longer she looks at Cosima, the more she stands out as something bright here. She's hiding things and Cass squints her eyes to see better, pick them out.

An ally, or someone good at lying with their body. She doesn't trust this Doctor Kneehouse, but she can see plainly that what's happened here isn't something Cosima had anything to do with. She doesn't like it. There's still a chance that she'll fail whatever test this is by cooperating, but one or two answers can't hurt.

"Don't know days." It's so raspy and rough, but she pushes through and is glad she can't feel how it hurts to speak. "Too many drugs... to track them, if I knew them. Where is Cain?"

That's her test, to see what Cosima's body says about David Cain. If there's knowledge there, recognition, Cosima's body will tell her exactly what she thinks of the man and what her goals are with Cass. She doesn't know if they know what she can do, but she assumes if they did her eyes would be covered now.

The conditions of Cassandra's capture completely escape Cosima personally - she may have some clearance here, but it's still Dyad. Their secrets have secrets. She certainly isn't a high enough level for that, but that's not to say that she doesn't have Cass' file pulled up right here on her laptop, bare bones neatly detailed away as though she's a science experiment rather than a live, human being sitting across the table from her.

324B21. It's definitely something Cosima can identify with.

"Your father," she confirms gently, though nothing in her betrays any sort of greater knowledge about him or what part he might play in this. Maybe some mild disgust, considering what she does know about Cass' childhood here. Most of it is inconclusive, hearsay and conjecture, but it's all they have. Cassandra's been a ghost to them for more than a few years, and she doesn't doubt that they lost track of her more than once while she was out there in the world, on the run.

"He's not here," to her knowledge. "I'd say we could make arrangements for you to see him at some point, but, really, A) I can't promise that, and," she pauses for effect, flipping up a page she has on the table as her face sets into something very particularly cool, "answer B) is that I can kinda get a vibe that he might not be one of your favorite people."

She throws a look to the window and wonders who's standing behind it, who's watching now. For all she knows, Cain is one of them. "I think the lady would like something to drink, mind," she calls out, leaning a bit over in her chair. She clears her throat, holding back a cough, and raises her eyebrows instead. "And I'll take tea, while you're at it."

With her eyes trained on Cosima, very little of that escapes her. Cosima is an ally in this, someone who is working for but not necessarily with the people in charge here. No love for Cain, but her body language suggests she may not know him personally. This is someone on her side, whatever that may mean.

There's no hostility as she watches the other woman now. Just curiosity, and when she says she wants tea there's finally a flicker of something in her eyes, the turning of her head to see if anyone heard that. She wants tea, her throat is raw and dry and she wants tea, and-

But then her attention is on Cosima again.

"You're sick?"

It's with a pause that Cosima leans back into her seat where she is, peering over at Cass with something almost wariness. It was instantaneous, it was something she'd been hiding from Sarah and the others for weeks and weeks now. And Cassandra Cain just figures it out without even a snap of her fingers.

"How did you know it - "

That's the wrong question, but the tickle's still in her throat. Cosima calmly removes a tissue from one of her lab coat pockets. Secret's out, might as well stop putting on a show. She coughs enough to clear her throat, pressing the kleenex tight against her lips and giving a minute shake of her head as she folds away something bloodied and shoves it back into her pocket. She tries to be as discreet as possible.

"That was the wrong question," she submits instead, as if she had time to think about it while she was hacking up a lung. Her hair falls sporadically over her shoulder as she leans in forward, and then on an elbow, chin propped up against her hand. Down to a cellular level, her body screams curiosity and intrigue.

And maybe a little fear. There's this tiny notion of worry, perhaps because it feels vaguely like having one's mind read. It's uncanny, the thought of being unable to hide something from someone.

But it must be just as uncanny to look at someone and immediately know all of their secrets, without trying, without even asking to. And so she most certainly presses on. "As soon as that tea comes - Right on cue."

The door props open, the sound of a heavy lock unlatching, and a man with a tray and a Bluetooth piece still in his ear sets it down near Cosima, not on her notes. Styrofoam cups. So she can't use anything as a weapon. "That's cute, thanks for the quality control, dude," she salutes after his retreating form. She sets one cup in front of Cass and one in front of herself, fingers clasped around the styrofoam.

"Drink something. Go ahead."

Not sick, then. Dying is the better word, the more fitting and accurate one. And that's sad, to Cass. It's sad that the only good person she's seen here so far is the one that may not be around for very much longer. It must be why she's here, willing to work for people she doesn't like much.

And then the tea comes, in that fake plastic stuff, and Cass frowns. It's probably from one of those big silver things that heats it to boiling, not loosely brewed in a pot and poured into a real cup. Hot leaf water, not real tea. Her distaste is clear but she puts the tips of her fingers on the up anyway, drawing it into her grasp.

"I won't kill you." She says to Cosima. Maybe that's a weakness, but she won't hurt her. If anything, she feels like maybe she'd fight for the other woman. It's a weird feeling. She lifts the cup and tips her head forward, but there isn't enough slack in the chains around her wrists. There's a jolt and her hands stop, the tea spills over her fingers and would burn if she felt pain.

She could lean forward and hunch over and drink like an animal, but she isn't the animal. Mad Dog was the animal, so with her jaw clenching painfully, Cass simply puts the cup back down.

'I won't kill you,' she tells her, and that's honestly good enough for Cosima.

She's not just going to sit idly by and allow this girl - and she does look like a girl, so bound tight and helpless in the position she's in right now - try and lap out of her cup like a savage, like a dog. She's not a dog. She's a living fucking human being.

So she makes an executive decision. The door's already locked again, and damn whoever might be watching when Cosima pushes herself out of the chair and trails along the side of the table with her own cup in her hand. There's a knock at the window, as if a warning - someone mad at her, scared for her, probably both - but she sidles onto the table edge nearer to Cass anyway, if on mildly shaky legs, and using the metal surface as a brace to move herself.

In fact, she sits right up on top of the table, setting herself cross-legged in front of Cass. It seems almost as if asserting a position of power, or it would to anyone else who didn't know better, but Cosima simply lifts the cup and blows lightly at the surface to cool it, holding it out for Cass and ready to tilt if she needs it. Embarrassing, to have to be fed or watered like an animal, she knows, but it's the most she can do for the time being.

"You don't have to trust me," she tells Cass quietly, gently, that tickle still half in her throat. This whole 'more and more constantly having to be hooked up to an oxygen tank' thing is getting old. "But at least take a drink." They're not going to poison her. She's too valuable.

After a linger, she adds, "It's not contagious. Promise."

Edited 2014-07-02 20:11 (UTC)

"Not worried about that."

There's no explanation about why, just a definitive I'm not afraid of you. Accepting. She likes Cosima and that may end up being her downfall but empathy is one thing she learned by herself, with no help from Cain. Cain can't feel those feelings but Cass feels them twice as much as a normal human would, and so she knows enough now to know she likes Cosima.

Gentle, careful fingers touch Cosima's wrists to steady her hands as Cass leans in and takes a sip of the tea, the taste (or lack of one) barely noticed. She's too busy looking up at Cosima, the little fleck of blood at the corner of her mouth and the colors in her eyes that she didn't see from far away, the way her hair twists and twists back away away from her face. She's pretty, Cassandra decides.

Maybe this is bad. Maybe this is their trick, to make her attached to someone who can take from her, prod and test her and get results because Cain knows, he knows how desperately she wants someone to be kind to her. There's no signs of trickery in Cosima, though. She's only trying to do what's right, and it doesn't feel like playing into their hands when it's something Cosima wants to do herself.

Most certainly something she wants to do herself, though it's not entirely without help, at the least. There's a shortage of Dyad employees who are self-aware enough about where they work to know - know, and act upon, thankfully - that the whole place is just Bad News Bears. She doesn't know how much she can trust the people within that she does have, though she's leaned on them an awful lot in the past. And she can't do this without help.

"I'm sorry," she offers in a quiet voice as Cass drinks the tea, low enough that the mics won't pick up on it but just enough for Cass to hear. "I'm so sorry this is happening to you."

There really is a genuine nature to Cosima that bleeds out her skin, her mouth, her eyes. There's, surprisingly, a gentle nature to Cass in how her fingers grasp at her wrists - she doesn't break, doesn't misbehave, doesn't hurt. She's just tired, and she just wants a drink. In part, this whole experiment is to prove that Cassandra Cain does not need the sort of security on her that she already has. "But you need to help me."

Help me help you.

"Cooperation's an issue." This is a bit louder, and maybe heard over the speakers, but it's half for show as well as it is for Cass. "You wouldn't be locked up so tight if you weren't beating the shit out of every employee you come across," she notes with a quirk of a grin. They probably all had it coming to them. "You think you can do that for me?"

You think you can help me get you out of this place?

Gentle isn't what comes naturally, but it comes easy when someone like Cosima is the one she's interacting with. Her fingertips exert just the tiniest bit of pressure against Cosima's skin to tip the cup down more. She'd gulp the whole thing right then and there if she was fine with burning her throat, she's that thirsty, but she finds that she actually wants to speak to Cosima.

It's a very weird feeling.

When she takes her hands away, they fold on top of the table and she spends a few long moments just watching Cosima, getting a good read on her. She's never seen this, someone feeling sad for her. It makes her feel sad and that is very new, she never knew she was a thing to pity until this moment.

"For you," she says very quietly. "Maybe. I don't know... what you want, though."

"For me?"

That's cool. That's a good thing to hear.

A thing to pity, Cass is not and Cass will never be, she assumes, but Cosima doesn't really pity by design. She feels for people, certainly; she's not cold, she's just observant. She just knows the world and how it can break people, maybe not as exclusively as she initially thought. All she wants is to get Cass out of here, get her a shower, get a decent meal in her. She's a nice girl, she's a pretty girl, and she's a smart girl. She deserves better than this.

"What I want isn't the question you should be asking." She peers at Cass over the rims of her glasses, taking back the tea and even taking a sip of her own. It runs smooth and warm down her throat, soothing the soreness of it. She adjusts in her spot and sets both cups down in front of her, hands raising expressively as she leans forward more towards Cass in a show of faith. This woman could strangle her if she so wanted. This woman could bite her fucking nose off.

She won't. And Cosima trusts her not to.

After this, if she can get what she needs out of this, they will praise Cosima for extracting the information they couldn't. Torture isn't the way to go, though it's certainly something they've obviously tried, judging by the look of her. Nobody ever got what they truly wanted out of fear and loathing, not unless they don't have the conscience to go with it. "This is about what you want. Your immediate desires, your - your desperate grasp for what it is that could be so close to you and what you once had but now it's been taken from you."

Her hands circle each other as she speaks, drawing out a globe sort of shape, the world in her hands and she could do anything with it.

It's freedom, Cass. She wants you to have your freedom.

It's very true that Cass has absolutely no desire to harm Cosima in any way. She wants to touch her more, her face and her hair and her hands again, and it's more pronounced when Cosima is so close to her. She's a little distracted, seeing all the things her body language is practically shouting.

She's never seen this level of trust. She's never seen what it looks like to be cared for. She can only take it for so long before she's ducking her head and feeling robbed, because Cain never looked at her this way. She was a weapon only, and now Cosima wants her to think as a human. She has no idea how.

"I don't want. I just... do." It's the easiest way she has to explain, to define what she is. "Never once had anything. Someone... told you wrong. Nothing's been taken. Can't take... what's never given."

Freedom is included. She's never been free, she wouldn't know where to start.

It's none so comforting, hearing that come out of her. It's not that Cosima pities her even further or anything, it's just that it's - She can't even imagine, is the thing. She's always lived a fairly cushy life, up and until recently, what she's found out about herself and what lies she's been fed for longer than she can remember. She hasn't been locked in basements, she hasn't had the kindness beaten out of her. She hasn't been honed into a weapon, something dangerous and so not like her own self that she can't even recognize herself when she looks in a mirror anymore. Not yet, anyway.

"Nobody told me anything," she remarks lightly, propping up her chin on a fist and frowning mildly. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I've read your file. Your dad's a real treat." The last bit certainly has disdain written all over it, though she smiles as though it's not sarcasm, flat and without any teeth. He might be listening. He might even be watching.

Cass deserves something. Everybody deserves something. And this isn't something, this is - This is miserable. This is so fucked up and wrong on so many levels that she doesn't quite know how to properly comprehend, though she will for the time being. Cassandra needs her, more than she needs anybody right now. She needs help. For once, she's going to have to take it, even if she doesn't necessarily look for it.

"Do you remember Dr. Friedman?"

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hey, mr curiosity, is it true what they've been saying about you?

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